


Menagerie

by fictionalaspect



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Biting, Blood, Bromance, Casual Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Painplay, Recreational Drug Use, Sex while intoxicated, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Say it," Tyler says, and he's laughing, hidden bubbles of joy in his voice that says that he's high. Dylan is <i>so</i> high. It's why he's pressed face down on the carpet, because normally he is fast like a prairie dog or a chipmunk or some exceedingly fast small animal but right now--right now everything is slow.</p><p>"I'm not cleaning the fucking bathroom," Dylan says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Menagerie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [desfinado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/desfinado/gifts).



> Thank you so much to [LittleMousling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling) for a really wonderful beta. 
> 
> I've been in this fandom for about 15 seconds, so apologies if I got anything wrong, which I most likely have.

Dylan is pressed face-down into the carpet.

He can feel Tyler's hand on the back of his neck, the rough spots where he never cuts his damn hangnails and they turn into sharp weapons. "Claws," Tyler says, snickering to himself when he does it. They're tiny claws. Shitty fucking claws, if you ask Dylan. Lame-ass fucking claws.

"Say it," Tyler says, and he's laughing, hidden bubbles of joy in his voice that says that he's high. Dylan is _so_ high. It's why he's pressed face down on the carpet, because normally he is fast like a prairie dog or a chipmunk or some exceedingly fast small animal but right now--right now everything is slow.

"I'm not cleaning the fucking bathroom," Dylan says.

Tyler presses down harder. More unconventional claws. Dylan waits a beat and then he flails his legs out again, catching the back of Tyler's left knee. It bowls him over but it doesn't remove his death-grip on the back of Dylan's head. It's enough for Dylan to snake-roll out of it, though, kick his legs to the side and swipe Tyler off his feet. Guitar Hero is still singing in the living room, the background to Seven Nation Army sounding strange and unrecognizable.

"Yes you are, dude, those were your fucking pubes," Dylan says, and Tyler is just losing his shit, cracking up so hard that he can't even fight Dylan off. His sweatpants are pulled way down low, boxer briefs on display. Tyler wears stupid boxer briefs. Dylan has told him this a thousand times but he still gets laid, so. Whatever.

Dylan pins him and sits on his chest. "Seriously, dude. On my toothbrush. You cannot make that shit up."

"My hair is, uh. Kind of curly. Maybe that's what it is."

"Not that curly," Dylan says. He presses his hands into Tyler's wrists. He's not bigger, but he fights dirty. He has skills.

Skillz, even. With a z.

Tyler catches him off-guard and flips them. Dylan hits the carpet again, rough press of fibers against his cheek. He's going to have rugburn on his face. Colton is never going to let him live this down if it’s still visible tomorrow. Tyler pulls Dylan’s hands behind his back and sits on him.

"Say it," Tyler says. "Admit you put those there to frame me so you could get out of cleaning the bathroom this week."

"Clean your own damn bathroom," Dylan says, the laughter bubbling up and out of his chest before he can stop it. He tries to muffle it in the carpet.

_Damn._

Found out again.

\--

Dylan is lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. His beer dangles loosely from one hand. If he moves his head ever so slightly, he can see the TV, showing some weird thing that Tyler downloaded and insisted on watching.

"Dude, I don't even know what this is."

"It's awesome," Tyler says. He's equally bored and equally shirtless. He has scratch marks across one shoulder from the epic battle for the bathroom earlier. It had ended in a truce, sealed with Doritos and beer. At some point they are going to have to admit that they miss working and they're fucking bored to tears, but today is not that day. They're only two weeks into the hiatus. It's been a solid week of events, appearances, places to go, people to see. But today was open, and tomorrow is free, and this is the time for weed and beer.

Dylan is slow right now. Slow like a turtle. Slow like a snail. There's no racing thoughts, just everything happening in succeeding steps, like he's standing on a timeline. He's used to everything happening all at once. This must be what being someone else feels like.

"I like sketch comedy as much as the next randomly-popular teen hearthrob," Dylan says. "But this is like, existential French mime sketch comedy. It's weird."

"Mimes are cool."

"Okay, yeah, mimes are cool," Dylan concedes. "But not two hours of mimes, dude."

"Yeah," Tyler says. He takes another sip of his beer. Tyler's hair is a mess against the back of the couch, curled up into messy chunks where he keeps brushing it up and off his forehead. "Yeah, maybe."

Tyler tosses the remote to Dylan, and Dylan stabs at a few buttons before finding the right one. His mouth tastes like beer. He makes a face and tries to rub his tongue off on his palate, but it doesn't work. Everything has that beer-y taste. It's okay for a while, but he's getting to the point where it just tastes like ass. Maybe they should switch to rum and ginger.

Dylan pauses the video, closing iTunes and switching over to cable. There's nothing great on. Re-runs, house shows, history channel specials on airplanes. A retrospective on Michael Jackson. The news. And--

"Oh shit, dog show," Dylan says.

“Yes.” Tyler leans over for a high five.

"Dog show," Dylan says, slapping Tyler’s hand and then switching over. There's a poodle in the ring. It's prancing.

"It's like a warm fuzzy blanket," Tyler says. "A fuzzy blanket of dogs."

Dylan laughs.

"Make out with me," he says, because he's just thought of it, and why not. Dog shows and making out. Sure. Okay.

Tyler looks over at him, furrowing his brow like he's not sure he actually heard what he did, in fact, just hear.

"I'm bored," Dylan says, stretching out against the back of the couch. He taps Tyler's foot with one hand. "I want to make out and drink and watch the dog show."

Tyler looks at him for a long moment, and then he shrugs and sits up, crawling over so they're both on the same side of the couch.

"Okay?" he says, like he's waiting for the punchline.

"Sure," Dylan says. He takes a final sip of his beer, reaching over and setting it down on the floor. Then he leans back and kisses Tyler, soft, press of lips against lips, beer-smell. He waits for a moment and then he pulls back. Tyler is grinning.

"I thought you were kidding," he says.

"Oh," Dylan says.

"No, it's--whatever. I guess it's cool," Tyler says. "I mean I don't usually--but whatever. It's okay."

"I don't usually either," Dylan says. "But this isn't about you. It's like, about beer and dogs. And blankets."

"Don't say it's about dogs," Tyler says.

"Right, no," Dylan agrees. "Not about dogs. Dog _shows_. Warm blanket."

"Yeah, yeah," Tyler says, like he gets it. He slips his arm around Dylan's waist and leans in again, and this time it's more tongue, less fear. Tyler's mouth is warm and soft and it's pretty close to making out with a girl, besides the beer-smell and the Tyler-smell. It's pretty good. Tyler kisses all romantic and shit, like he's trying to get Dylan into bed. Which--whatever, that could happen. Maybe. _That_ is something Dylan's never done, but Tyler is his bro and there's a first time for everything.

Maybe not tonight, though.

"I don't have boobs," Dylan reminds Tyler, when Tyler's hands skate across his chest like he's looking for something.

"I know," Tyler says. "It's blowing my mind."

"Glad to be of service," Dylan says. He kisses Tyler's throat, his neck, the curve of his ear. His shampoo smells good. Wait, it smells good because it's Dylan's shampoo.

"You fucker, stop using my shampoo," Dylan mumbles into Tyler's hair. "That shiz is expensive."

"So's your mom," Tyler says. His leg slides up against Dylan's, toned calves and soft hair where one of his sweatpants’ legs has nudged itself up.

"You should--come on, like this," Dylan says, and rolls on his back so Tyler can roll on top of him. Dylan likes being under things, likes weight and pressure on top of him. He's never had any complaints from his girlfriends in that regard. Cowgirl style seems to work pretty well for them, too.

Tyler's heavier than he's used to, but warm and solid and familiar. He's also rock-hard, which startles Dylan enough that he opens his eyes. Not that he didn't expect that, but--actually he really didn't expect that. Tyler's pretty straight on the arrow, despite appearances. Pretty targeted towards the ladies.

Except--hey, okay, maybe not.

"You said usually," Dylan mumbles, into Tyler's mouth. His lips feel bruised. "You said you don't _usually_ do this."

"And?" Tyler pulls back, licks his lips.

"Usually implies more than once," Dylan says. "I just--" He wiggles a little bit, so everything is quite clear. He's hard, and Tyler's hard, and suddenly this seems like it's going somewhere a little different than warm and soft and lazy makeouts. "You're kind of--"

"Yeah," Tyler says. "Ummmm." It’s a low sound, drawn out, perfect surfer-boy California, just like Tyler. A thinking noise. "I mean, a couple of times," Tyler says. "Just making out and stuff. I mean--above the waist, so whatever."

"Okay, yeah."

"So yeah, I don't know what that's about," Tyler says, looking down between them. He looks back up, makes eye contact. "But like. Seize the moment?"

"Uhhhm." Dylan bites the corner of his mouth, thinking. He rolls his lower lip into his mouth, sucking on it. Still no decision. Thinking is hard when he's drunk. Usually he makes decisions by moving, by _doing_ , split-second and no take-backs. Now he has time to think, and he doesn't know what to say.

"You mean like ... okay, no, what do you mean."

"Getting off," Tyler says, rolling back onto his side. "Making out, and getting off. Come on, I'm drunk and now I'm horny." He slides his hand down into his sweatpants and Dylan thinks oh yeah, he can totally do that. That's fine.

Dylan kisses him to avoid answering, to avoid having to explain what he’d thought Tyler meant. He slides his hand into his boxers and wraps it around his cock, shivering at the contact of skin-on skin.

Tyler shifts closer, so their elbows are together, a matching rhythm that makes everything spark up. There’s something about the knowledge that this is how Tyler does it, this is how he pulls and groans, and now it's Dylan following the same rhythm, the same pattern.

Dylan leans up, searching for more. He presses his mouth hard into Tyler's and then there's a bite, a catch of teeth, and Tyler moans. The sound spreads through Dylan's whole body, the perfect note at the perfect pitch. Dylan shoves him in, speeding his hand up and going for the throat, biting down so he can hear that noise again. He wants to bite and he wants Tyler to bite _him_ , but there are some things he can’t ask for in words.

Dylan leans back, arching his neck and making eye contact, just the once, just for this. Tyler's eyes are low and hooded. They widen when he sees Dylan baring his neck. Tyler sucks in air through his nose and then he leans in to bite, picking a spot just above Dylan's collarbone.

The sharp sting of teeth, exactly what Dylan needs, some of that _go-go-go_ that he's missing in his alcohol haze. He lets his mouth fall open, arching his back. Tyler doesn't let go, pulling back to breathe and then picking another spot just beside it.

Another bite, another sting. Dylan speeds his hand up, whimpering. He's close. Tyler's close too, from what Dylan can feel of the hand rubbing up against his thigh on every up-stroke. Everything is shaky and bright and Dylan ducks his head, trying to catch Tyler's mouth.

It's a messy press of lips, nothing spectacular, more of a faceplant than a kiss. Dylan moans and bites down on Tyler's lip, hard as he can, hard enough to bleed.

Tyler lets out a high noise, sharp and helpless. There's a flood of wetness against Dylan's thigh and a coppery taste against his tongue, and that's enough to push him to the end. His balls tighten up and then he feels the release, the endorphins, that high point of light and the gentle come-down. The golden feeling in his back and legs, the warmth in his stomach. The familiar sensation of come all over his hand.

"You bit me," Tyler mumbles, nose to nose. His eyes are unfocused and he's got that half-smile on, the one that always means trouble.

"Sorry," Dylan says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with one hand. Jesus, he's sweating. That was a good one.

"I'm bleeding," Tyler says, and licks the cut on the inside of his lip.

"I know," Dylan says. "I think I swallowed some of it. You don't have any incurable diseases I should know about, right?"

"Nah."

"Okay.”

"Come on, taste it," Tyler says, and leans in again. Dylan swallows and kisses him back, aware of his actions now like he wasn't before. This is deliberate, pulling the taste into his mouth because he likes it, because it gets him off. He's never told anyone about that.

"Guess we're blood brothers now," Tyler says, getting comfortable on his side and pulling away from the kiss. He looks like he's settling in, and Dylan really should move. He should. Cuddling isn't part of this program. It's not on the menu.

"You have to share to be blood brothers," Dylan says. "You didn't bite me hard enough."

"Next time for everything," Tyler says, and Dylan feels like there's a hurricane inside his stomach, something rolling around and thrashing excitedly. A good hurricane.

"Maybe," Dylan says, because he can't show his cards all at once. He rolls onto his back, stretching his arm up above his head. He's tired. Every bone in his body weighs a thousand pounds. He's not getting up, and he knows it. He's already succumbing to the undertow.

Tyler is curled next to him, warm and happy. Eyes closed, legs thrown over Dylan's. Two bears in a nest, hibernating until the spring.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Menagerie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/501271) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




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